rent
by appleschan
Summary: she rents from him –the bombastic guy.
1. days take forever

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc.

*_it's a distract-ception fic. was writing bs17 then got distracted, shifted to ent3, got distracted, so shifted to nas12, then got distracted again -to this. i think my brain wants to write rukia._

**rent**

i. days take forever

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>Rukia can dispel rumors if she wants-<p>

One rumor says that the brooding, hot (they say) guy at the far corner of the audi comes from a German-Japanese power family and his father is from the Nobunaga line which is pretty impressive if he actually cares.

-but she doesn't because-

"It's really awesome, he should be in a museum or something. He's like a walking piece of history. Awesome."

-it's a part of her daily entertainment.

Rukia doesn't _really_ care about his lineage, point in fact, she would rather tap her pen against her desk humming a Keiko Abe piece while waiting for the professor than _really_ listen to pointless college gossips.

But the girl who's currently her seatmate for History does. She cares a lot, too, about his hair. "Ooh, that's done by a New York-based hair colorist, you know, so it's kind of _sooo_ natural-looking"

_Wrong_, Rukia thinks, that's natural.

But gossips like this fill the gap, the dead silence around her in-between classes while waiting for their professor. And she thinks, she _can_ put up with it because it might be a bit of fun –sort of- to hear the guy being made into some sort of impossibly charming _real_ hero.

"Nobody really knows a lot about him, it's kind of hot, I mean it's kind of hot, hot guy with the hot and mysterious background," her seatmate winks at her.

Rukia shrugs. _No_.

"Oh and he reads books once. Only once. Then he remembers everything."

The boy her seat mate and the rest of the university girls admire continues to sit at the far corner of the audi silently; his hood drawn to cover his hair, his gaze –maybe, because she can't really see- set straight ahead.

The problem with being famous is that there are so many, many, many verbose and bombastic rumors.

"Oh some international actors actually asked for his diet and skin care, you know,"

_Oh_, Rukia thinks, her seatmate really won't stop. Rukia shifts slightly and takes her book out.

"-and um, producers like, they like, wanna get him into the industry. Something sexy. No, not porn. Absolutely no porn. Because, uhh, you know, the vast family background-"

"I'm sorry, the Nobunaga line?" Rukia asks, opening her book on the page about their current lesson without looking. She knows, oh she knows, because she studies hard.

"Nobunaga," her seat mate confirms, "sucks, right? I know-! Oh yeah! He plays football as brilliantly as Honda Keisuke does! I think he's invited to play for the national team, but he kind of refused them because...oh well, super tight schedule. And I don't know, there's this tradition in his family…so yeah."

For Rukia, the story goes like this, everyone in campus knows, follows and admires Kurosaki Ichigo. He majors in –seriously- she doesn't know. She thinks he has this entire collection of black outfits and poetry books. He doesn't talk much, but he glares a lot. She thinks that's enough human interaction for him. He goes home at approximately 9 pm. He buys take out reheated food for dinner even if he can afford to dine in a Michelin-starred restaurant every night. He eats it while waiting for the last scheduled bus towards his house. There's an emphasis on _house_. Nobody ever said he's pleasant or kind or approachable or nice.

For everyone else, Kurosaki Ichigo is this some sort of all-rounder hero; bombastic and indestructible.

* * *

><p>to be continued<p> 


	2. the day sky is full of startling stars

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc.

**rent**

**ii. the day time sky is full of startling stars**

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>10 minutes after 9 pm at the bus stop, the guy who sits at the far corner of the audi sits in front of the desolate convenience store holding a cold sandwich and a Fanta on another hand.<p>

He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, one hand clutching the cold sandwich that he bites into every 1 minute. He has his hood still drawn up and his black backpack on the side.

10 minutes after 9 pm at the same bus stop, Rukia just finished her cold salad –also bought from the convenience store.

They sit awkwardly 2 benches away. And the lone light post is dim and it flickers erratically. They're both waiting for the last scheduled bus.

"Water the plants tomorrow morning," he says quietly. Oh, he reminds her. Sometimes, when it's not too much of a trouble to make himself speak, he reminds her of things, many things, many random things. She thinks he only speaks because he still cares for his voice. Because how can he snap at her without it?

"I will," she answers back, slightly more cheerful.

He's talking about the plants that died 2 weeks ago. She knows his scowl deepens and she feels slightly victorious.

And the bus hasn't arrived yet.

The Kurosaki Ichigo that girls in her different classes know is the prince/movie star/shounen hero/super freaking smart/athletic hybrid super guy. All these, but he isn't really. Not so bombastic and princely and awesome like many girls believe. People mostly stay in the admiration line.

He broods a lot, really, a lot it's unhealthy. Rukia once tried to lift the spirit by putting small potted sunflowers at every corner of his house –he ended up chucking them away the same hour. "Cheap," he said. But Rukia defended, "still, it's nice…" But he answered, "These are plastic flowers. Don't buy them." Then she learned he doesn't like small efforts made for him by other people.

Rukia looks at him and any attempt at conversation is no longer applicable as she sees him _deeply_ scowling. Oh, the flowers must have offended him that bad.

She's not scared of him, she's not shy, she's not awkward, she's _threading_ carefully.

Nobody really says Kurosaki Ichigo is kind.

3 weeks ago, at the same bus stop, Rukia saw him up close for the first time. She only knew him as the guy with the bombastic rumors and someone who sits at the far corner of the audi during history class. She saw him seated in the same bench, eating the same cold sandwich, drinking the same Fanta, wearing the same hood and back pack. But she could not care.

_She sits on the bench, waiting for something she doesn't really know. Rukia sits stiffly. Her dress is damp and her shoes are gravely uncomfortable. It is 9 in the evening and this is harder than expected. This is being directionless. Her family driver dropped her off here, at the bus stop before surrendering the car, and wished her a throaty yet hearty good luck._

_She's well aware of him sitting right there waiting for the last scheduled bus. _

_Yet she thanks him, she's glad for his muted company, the hunch male form, at least no goon would come up to her in the meantime. _

_But 'in the meantime' will end in a minute as she sees the headlights approaching._

_He stands from the bench and walks up to the entry point, waiting for the bus to pull over._

_The bus pulls over and she closes her eyes and thinks she's alone; she doesn't look long enough to see him walk up to the bus._

She sits alone, the cold wind blowing and uncomfortable deep to the soul and lost in the universe.

"_Hey," he says._

_Rukia looks up, startled._

"_What's wrong with you?" He asks, he doesn't like talking in a high volume, and he doesn't care about his tone, too. He walks up to her and asks again, "what's wrong with you?"_

_Rukia hears him and wonders herself, what's wrong with me?_

"_That's the last bus." __He says like he's berating her._

_Strange, her classmates say he doesn't talk much._

_"Oh," a sigh then, "I didn't know."_

_She looks up, and it is surprising to see the eyes of the guy who sits in the corner of the audi aren't that dark like what her seatmates fantasize, they are a lighter shade of caramel._

_"Where do you stay?"_

_Ahh, she finds it hard to answer, she considers not telling the truth but there is no reason to lie either._

_"I have no place to go." She answers heavily._

_He suddenly walks out and goes to the bus entry point and looks at his watch repeatedly._

_Rukia doesn't expect him to help, but she is sure he won't spread rumors either-_

"_Keep my house tidy, dust everything, pluck the overgrown grass and you can stay." He says, and she finds him suddenly in front of her._

_"What?" What?_

_Rukia stares up at him. _

Nobody really says Kurosaki Ichigo is kind, but Kurosaki Ichigo's kindness is disarming.

Then another bus arrives.

* * *

><p>to be continued<p> 


	3. books about beasts, bees and butterflies

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

*re-uploaded.

**rent**

**iii. books about beasts, bees and butterflies**

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>She discovers, one of his habits is going to the library to borrow a book -he's cheap, he doesn't like spending on an expensive copy when one is readily available unless of course it's a matter of reading a newer version- then heading straight to one of the university rooftops to read, not that his habit is surprising at all.<p>

But the books he checks out aren't within the last five years nor are they academic, they're well past a hundred years ago and some thousands, the surviving copies of old western novels and some Heian poetry compilations and translations.

Then she thinks, all shoujo heroes must have some sort of endearing habit.

In his house, she sees a large collection of classical books and old poetry books. He said something about not liking (not liking, _not_ hating) the modern ones because they are trying too hard, too superficial, too superfluous but empty. The way he said _empty_ struck something in her, like he means it dearly, like he's looking for something otherwise, she supposes it's because it's hard to find _heart_ nowadays.

Then she makes a mental note, Kurosaki Ichigo likes _heart_.

Maybe that's why he threw the plastic sunflowers away in the first hour she put them in their places.

Today, they both have no class. So she bought tulips (white and yellow and violet) and a white china vase from a thrift store -oh, vintage and all that, to match his affinity for old books. It's just a short walking trip from his house to the old florist who offered her the tulips in a slashed price. She will put them where most of his battered books are usually placed, because she doesn't give up easily.

Currently, she holds them in a badly-wrapped, badly-concealed paper bag.

It's the second story of his house where he keeps a huge room open (meaning he broke down the door because it's prone for locking itself because of its old and malfunctioning lock) for his old books and he keeps a single cushioned chair in the middle to sit and a circular old rug under it. Rukia thinks, it's wistfully funny and otherworldly familiar because he's so old-fashioned. That a guy like him still exists.

His house is old-fashioned, too. She begins to think rumors about his lineage are true, the different katanas locked in glass cases with a covering of at least 2-inch of dust each and European-styled furniture and books written in German.

But rumors missed something, he lives alone –well, at least, before he took her in. He lives in a manor sort-of house, big, wrought-ironed gates, soot-covered walls and just generally dark, dark, dark.

So he lives alone and buys his food from the convenience store. And she can stay if she helps in cleaning his house.

Admittedly, after 3 weeks, she only about accomplished the front garden –where the dying (and dead) flowers are.

He said, "_Stupid, clean the house first."_ Ahh, he means that after telling her to water the plants, "_leave them be after watering them_," she almost heard him say last night before they parted ways at the staircase.

She left them. But she bought the tulips and is currently thinking of where she'll place them; this room is huge.

She takes the vase and sits cross-legged behind the large cushioned chair, down at the circular rug, turned away from the door to arrange the flowers. She bought at least a dozen tulips and really, she has no idea how her previous maids and florists do this, she could simply chuck the flowers in and pour water but she didn't want it to look haphazardly done or she might risk him chucking it away again.

She just finished putting the last violet tulip when she hears the cushion chair creaks and she stops mid-pour.

She hears the soft rustling of papers and knows instantly he's probably reading again. She feels his presence behind her, silent and big.

Awkward it is that he catches her sitting behind his chair in his home library. Then he acts like it's nothing.

She's about to mutter an apology –yet he won't really care- then exit quickly until she hears him softly say, "Put that in the desk by the window."

Something falls into place and good thing she knows how to conceal a smile.

There's a large window behind the chair, to where she's sitting pointing to, to where the afternoon sun is shining softly.

And she answers, "That's what I thought, too."

* * *

><p>to be continued<p> 


	4. sky from 4,892 light years away

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segment-continues. slice of life.

**rent**

**iv. sky from 4,892 light years away**

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>He thinks more than he feels, works more than enjoys more and it's <em>okay<em>.

Also, he runs more than he walks –and it's literal.

He jogs every night at 11 pm because that's the healthy thing to do, except that it isn't exactly healthy in that hour.

He speeds up –there isn't much to see. Mid-road, in-between and seemingly alone.11:30 pm when night defines night, and when silence defines silence. 11:30 pm when the post lamp flickers like those in horror movies and thugs could be roaming and there are fireflies in the trees. Sweat beads forming in his forehead and he wears a jacket and shorts and running shoes and he breathes still as he run.

It's like the early morning, like 5:30 in the morning, when the sun is about to rise and the heart is calm and steady. 11:30 pm is his 5:30 am –he thinks she knows because she keeps a large cold bottle of water ready for him in the table (they don't have a fridge because nobody really uses it) and an onigiri she buys with her store salad (that she doesn't eat but still buys anyway) the same way one would prepare freshly brewed coffee and muffin for breakfast.

He ends up eating that onigiri every 3 am because programmers are awake at night, programming majors likewise, they think more and work more.

And so he jogs –to keep his energy, to think and work more, because his day is night. At the back of his mind, he thinks, it's the different kind of silence, it's being able to feel the world revolve.

He sleeps at 5 am and wakes at 12 pm, his class starts at 2 pm.

While his world is a circadian disaster –more of a choice than an actual need, hers is proper –_mechanical_- more of a need than an actual choice. She's awake before 5 am, leaves at 7 am for her 8 am class and goes home with him every 9 pm –he knows because he couldn't really sleep until 8 am. Her dead hours are spent on the library, steadily studying. That or working as an assistant. He doesn't know, he never asked.

The only recognition that they are living together is a _nod_, sometimes, a quiet _hey_ or _morning_ or simply silence.

In the morning, when he's all done, she would walk downstairs (he works downstairs because of the obscenely large window he prefers and only opens at night), in yellow pajamas, she would find him so engross in solving algorithms written in his notes, then he would hear a quiet, "oh," then he would know, it's almost 5:00 am and he would prepare to go to sleep.

Walking upstairs back in his room, he'll hear another "oh?" from her down in the kitchen, then she would find out he already brewed the coffee for her and a muffin is beside it.

Communication does not necessarily mean talking and not seeing each other frequently does not necessarily mean they don't live with each other and this is okay.

They both have something to do and be busy about and they barely cross lines and there were very, very few words spoken between them and the stars are so far away, too-

-Ichigo turns back, it is 11:45 pm, he should be back, he exceeded his scheduled time.

Changing his direction while maintaining his speed, he runs back.

He finds it easier and faster to run back to his house these days, it's probably because he has direction, instead of lines in the road disappearing as he run towards the opposite way. That or the unimpeded view of the unpolluted night in his house's direction serves as an effective distraction or because he has a semblance of something to look forward to.

_Of course_, he could see from afar, her room, it's still lit by the time he gets home at 12 midnight -he thinks she's studying still, for the scholarship she recently received.

He recounted, he barely noticed her presence a few days after he offered her his help.

To this day, he hasn't heard her thank him –not that's he expects her to. He supposes she shows her gratitude through her little flower efforts and she's particularly very bad at it. Or being unmindful of him and being quiet. For that, he's wordlessly grateful.

He doesn't know what happened to her, he knows her as the girl in one of his classes. That's all. And he doesn't seek to know more.

Ichigo's reason for helping her is simple, it's because he has a house. It's big. And it's _empty_.

* * *

><p>to be continued<p>

*_the vy canis majoris distance from earth_.

thank you for the favorite author alerts and follows last year, the year before that and very early this year.

you guys are weird.

but sweet.


	5. ocean night in 36,070 feet

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

_*chapter withdrawn. wrong file. app not syncing. dunno which device i saved the correct version, i had to check first._

**rent**

**v. ocean night in 36,070 feet**

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>Tonight, as Rukia follows him to the bus stop where they usually go after class, she notices (while thoughtfully deciding if he would like umeboshi filled onigiri over the yakiniku filled ones for his early morning snack) they're not walking in the correct alley.<p>

She stops following his haunch hooded form. He never said "follow me" or "we will go somewhere" or something remotely similar to that.

Rukia suddenly turns back without hesitation and walks the other way immediately, her footsteps inaudible, certain he won't notice if she leaves too fast; she should not follow him, what if he wants to be alone? Who is she to intrude to that? Sharing his house with her is enough, and their world revolves in quietness and silent exchanges and that, too, is enough.

She looks back –out of curiously, really- and unexpectedly, she sees him looking at her as she walks away so she stops again, half-turning to him, surprised. His body half-turned to her almost unwillingly, like she's disrupting something and it irks him to spare her his time. And then she remembers, Kurosaki Ichigo doesn't like wasting time.

She's also certain he's almost glaring. She awkwardly stands there.

Then slowly, he turns to her fully and it's like she could hear him berate her (again and again, about the last bus and the flowers). She supposes this is the _third_ again that will be followed by a long list of _agains_.

"Where are you going?" He asks quietly.

Rukia wonders to herself, did she miss something? Roadwork? Bus Stop station change? The hour? Did he say anything about something earlier?

"The usual," she answers hesitantly –the store, bus stop and his house.

He turns around and walks away, "the store won't have a supply of reheated meals until Friday. If you want to eat, follow me. Otherwise, go."

_Ahh_, surprised but not entirely shaken, she stands there while he goes away, contemplating. For weeks in succession, he eats sandwich with her while seating on a bench waiting for the bus, and for weeks she thinks it's not going to change because he sticks with his schedules so much and he doesn't like interruptions and going out of way for something trivial (and he thinks food is trivial) and it's funny because they're actually going out of their way for something so "trivial".

Rukia tightens her pale blue coat and rubs her finger less mitten-clad hands together. A cold July night mid-month and she figures this isn't so bad for a hot bowl of miso or ramen or udon.

And so she follows him with no idea –this isn't the best part of the city with the famed and greatly reviewed restaurants.

He takes (leads) her to a seaside small cramped food stand –it's not a classy restaurant, not even a fast food, it's near the concrete barrier separating the sea and solid road. There are small tables and mismatched chairs placed all around the steam-filled stand and everything is lighted by plain light bulbs. It's where most people drink cheap sake after work, it's also a commended ramen-ya. It's strangely comfortable in its dingy set-up.

He looks at her, asking, she thinks, about her order. And she glances blankly at the pictures (clearly doesn't know how to order) and looks back at him blankly. He scoffs in a way that tells her, _'idiot, I'll take care of it_.'

After, he finds seats near the back (from where they're standing) of the circular place, Rukia follows him there. It's a table for 6 and they sat end to end, opposite each other, negative spaces between them.

In an offhand manner, just something, just anything to break the silence, looking at the bulb-lined coastline then a little farther to where there's no longer distinction that runs between night and sea, she says she likes art-

"Then what do you think of impressionism?" then comes his immediate reaction.

Surprised (she does not expect him to) but not speechless, her violet eyes snap at his direction to see him looking expectantly at her, then, he slides his hood off and she clearly sees his shoulder-length bright orange hair and it kind of matches his amber eyes and he's not entirely unattractive and she suddenly feels not looking anymore.

But feels he's waiting for her answer, and really, she doesn't want to seem dumb in front of the guy with the highest scores. She did read about these things but found she had no hand for painting but nevertheless, sincere in telling him she likes it.

"Well, they broke what's considered conventional," she says, "they do not exactly conform to the rules, do they? It must have been a fun year for the French critics."

She does not make any comments about his hair.

He says nothing in return, of course, and the silence continues until their orders arrive. Both Tokyo-style ramen for them.

He finished his, she finished hers.

"What about Yamato-e?" he asks again.

She blinks again, he's determined to bring this up, "Oh it's a very distinctive art form, when you see one, you know where it came from, the classical Japanese style."

"You mean, it conforms to the rules of Japanese style?"

"Just like the rules of impressionism for impressionists."

"But you said impressionists do not follow the conventional rules, how can they break the conventional art rule but set rules for themselves?"

"I didn't say they set rules literally, I mean, style. Particular style that, well, differentiates them. Wait, what-I don't- I mean , I don't get this. What are you on about?" Strangely so, there is frustration in her voice and a little bit of mirth in his.

He challenged, "Then what is better?"

"That is absurd! You can't compare these two!"

There is no better art, she knows that, everything created out of passion is the creator's best and not subject for competition against other creator's best.

But then, she suddenly realized, he's asking for himself, in a roundabout way.

It's not about the rule breaking impressionists or the meticulous Yamato-e stylists, it' about him and how she sees him, differently against other people.

She knows, the rumors in her classes, how he doesn't like people much, how he likes to brood, how he's both admired and distant, and she thinks, it's about him, and that she has to choose her next words carefully.

She never saw him this attentive.

And she says, "no style is better, it's fine not to conform."

* * *

><p>It's 10 pm and he no longer walks ahead of her, he walks almost beside her and she wants to tell him it's fine, she can handle the thugs leering at her but doesn't because whenever she slows her pace, he'll stop and wait for her to catch up to him.<p>

She pops a peach flavored candy in her mouth while walking -something that a little kid gave her hoping it will cheer her up on her way to her classes, because sweets make you happy, and she didn't argue about cavity. She took three. And she offered one to Kurosaki but he only looked at her like she offered him a vomit-flavored jelly bean.

"If you know how to look, then you would know nights are far brighter than days," he says when he glimpse her looking above.

"Oh? Vincent Van Gogh?" Rukia quickly amends, "though that's not what he said exactly."

They reach the bus stop and the twinkling sign of the convenience store flashes in front of them.

"I know," he answers and she seems to hear the glare in his voice, and feel the stubbornness in his walks.

He crosses the road towards the store and she follows him.

She learns, he likes art. He learns, she likes art as well.

Then she thinks having no food supply in the convenience store isn't so bad at all.

She doesn't understand him yet, not much, but it's a start.

.

.

.

A while, while, while later, when they got home, she thinks, as she looks at the nicely wrapped yakiniku filled onigiri and a bottle of cold water in his table, what he said about the convenience store can't be true. (The store clerk smiled at her toothily as he presented her a wide array of freshly delivered onigiri to choose from. And when she glanced at Kurosaki, he looked as if he hadn't said anything and casually strode past her to pay for whatever indeterminate thing he bought.)

.

.

.

He bought the two of them fish-shaped ice cream waffles which they ate while waiting for the bus. He handed it to her wearing a grumpy expression that tells her, don't thank me.

She's surprised (again). She thanked him still.

.

.

.

He doesn't know and she doesn't know why, but she waits for him. She waits for the eerie creaking of the wrought iron gates at 12 midnight, the steady opening of the door and his heavy footsteps and the familiar sound of his computer turning on.

There is _'ahh'_ and _'okay'_ and she feels much better.

.

.

.

If he wanted to eat ramen, he should have told her straight. Rukia, _still_, would go with him.

.

.

.

She placed the remaining two peach-flavored candies beside the onigiri. Tonight had been special.

.

.

.

His house has a ridiculous amount of large and tall windows. And she keeps her window open at 1 in the morning trying to make sense of what he said earlier. She hears him typing relentlessly downstairs while she pushes a cushioned small sofa in front of the tall window and then curls up with her pajama and blanket and begins to decipher the night the way he and Vincent Van Gogh would.

The longer she looks at the inky sky, the faster she reverts into thinking of ways to tell him: "All I see is black", "It's just dark and cold" or "I'm not a poet" or "my mind is not the deep sea I don't understand" or "I can't even identify a metaphor!" Or "I'm bad at making metaphors" or "I can't see the colors" or even "why are you even interested in these things? You're a programmer. You like logic, algorithm and equation" and "sometimes, I don't get you" this, among all, is the most true.

_Kurosaki, Kurosaki._ She thinks, over bowls of steamy ramen and store supplies and fish-shaped waffles with vanilla ice cream for dessert and quiet bus rides, she sees bits of him. Oh he does smile, discretely, when he's reading. She has seen it and isn't sure if she's suppose to.

_Kurosaki, Kurosaki._ He's truly not unkind, truly not unkind.

Just the downside is this: he wears his hood not just over his head but to everything else. But the upside is this: she thinks he is not that hard to understand, except his richly colored nights and Gogh reference, but this isn't some sort of problem with tragic proportions, she is sure, because there are many more nights to understand what he meant -_him_.

.

.

.

Two days later, while dusting in his home library, she unexpectedly saw his ID and learned that his birthday was two days ago.

* * *

><p>to be continued<p>

_*marianas trench from the sea surface._

i always find it hard to write fluff then i realized it's because i've been rejecting the idea of writing common fluff all along. i prefer quiet actions and poetry and heart

(cat, cat is fluffy and so are bunnies, bunnies are fluffies. cute-cute. #poetry)

(6 am na gising pa 'ko)


	6. sun dance

disclaimer: i do not own bleach. i make no profit.

warning: ooc. segmented. slice of life.

rent

6. sun dance

_appleschan_

* * *

><p>Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the rest of her classmates, her final 3-hour class for the day is cancelled because of the –<em>plickplockplickplockplickplock<em>- heavy rain.

The 4-pm rain is a drizzle, the 5-pm rain is heavy and the 6-pm rainy weather turns severe, so severe that she internally thanked herself for bringing her rain boots with her out of a moment's strike earlier (she drank her coffee and went out immediately, taking the unbitten muffin with her, in case of a heavy morning rain along her way to the university grounds) and Rukia being Rukia, prepared as always, _also_ has an umbrella with her but she dare not travel in this weather and more importantly, she has _no_ key to his house.

Rukia sits in one of the roofed-benches lining the edges of the barely lit driveway towards the university field while the rain hammers down wondering what to do. The cold from steel begins to seep in her leggings. She rubs her palms together and puts them in her cheeks for warmth.

With this weather, most of the students had gone out. And Ichigo, she wonders, she doesn't know, they don't have classes together today. And she does not expect to see him linger more than necessary. And really, there is no reason for them to see each other during university hours outside classes.

It's all literature, she thinks distantly, other than the quiet bus rides and brief meetings in the morning and slight encounters in the weekend, it's _just_ literature class. And that how well she knows him really? Would all these account for something? Rukia isn't sure if she crossed the boundary from acquaintance to friendship yet.

Before, she hears his name from the grandiose rumors, she sees his hair from the crowd, she knows he's a brooding presence in her literature class; Kurosaki is an unreachable romantic hero, for a moment, the brightest star, the peak of the mountain, everyone's curiosity then a blink of an eye, turns a corner and he's out of her mind. _It's just literature class_. It's true but it isn't exactly right. After his discrete birthday treat (she never told him she knows), Rukia unconsciously becomes more aware of him. Hearing his name carries a more personal effect than she would like to, seeing his hair color among the crowd draws familiarity (she stops, he stops: nod, greet, hey, bye), he's not a brooding presence in her class, she knows his great interest in books, she would consider him not brooding but creating mental debates against whoever they're studying.

On a more personal note: he likes onigiri, he jogs at night, he sleeps at mornings, he is undoubtedly kind. This is as personal as it gets.

Other than that, she wonders, what else?

(_nothing_, the back of her mind screams. and it bothers her) Can she call him a friend?

-and it's still raining, but it dwindles, slowly, the raindrops fall not as hard as minutes before. Ruckus looks up and contemplates on waiting in the bus stop. She stands and realizes how dim it is where she sits, but _not_ from the corner of her eyes.

Rukia just noticed the lights in the playing field is on (at least one is on) amidst the rain. And people.

She ignores it and walks the other direction towards the bus stop.

.

.

.

Some say he plays as good as Honda Keisuke.

He's provocative and smart and good looking and strong and that's a football superstar thing –girls in the stand think collectively.

For Ichigo, being the new attacking midfielder is as easy as maneuvering algorithm in advanced C++. Breezy. Too easy. Second nature. So he does not, for the life of him, understand the throng of people (girls mostly, annoyingly so) who come to see (amidst the rain) him practice like what he does is something special. (His efforts, however, are expensive; his plays for the team are paid. And his recruiter stands at the side with a bittersweet smile).

Too many people, he thinks sourly, he couldn't see their faces quite clearly. He's waiting for her. _Where is she?_ It's 8 pm.

He told her, of course, left it in the little note under the muffin this morning, told her to get the keys from him and he'd be busy to go with her and not to go home too late:_ meet me in the field. 7 pm._

He keeps his watch on and his keys near in case he needs to make a quick run to her. Then after 30 minutes of waiting (while playing) with him shooting glares in all directions looking for a short girl with odd violet eyes, he does not see her anywhere. His practice ends an hour earlier, to the dismay of their coach and teammates and the crowd.

"Because I have to buy milk," he reasoned then breezed past everyone.

.

.

.

Rukia waits for more than an hour. _So he's not in the bus stop after all._ It is 9:15 pm and it's still raining and she waits while reading, the dim post lamp not too suitable but enough to make sense of Ms. Woolf's peculiar voice (a copy she secretly "borrowed" from his doorless library).

Ichigo slumps at the far side of the bench, dripping from rain after having run the entire way without an umbrella and wearing his university football uniform (black jersey short and socks and shirt) that, because of rain, clung to him and Rukia briefly looks away. He throws his multiple bags in the bench and she feels him step in front of her:

He's not scowling at her, he's scowling at the bench, at the wet pavement, at the post lamp, at the tree behind her head. "Were you here all this time?" he asks.

* * *

><p>to be continued<p>

edit: i meant soccer/_futbol_ (this terminology thing) i'm 95% sure i'll attend the next world cup in russia.

(lagi ako napagkakamalan estudyante, pero talaga, vente tres na ko)


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